Old Memory

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One cannot travel through life devoid of scars.

Each nightly ritual reminds of stories past as you

Sluice away at the open wounds of the day.

I trace a silver line on the curve of my foot,

Conjuring up memories of hurried feet along train tracks,

The shortcut to home. Furtively listening for the train whistle

That would squeal on us, my brother and I hastened home.

In my haste, I stumbled on a broken beer bottle, flung negligently.

The gash was deep, he tore his shirt in strips and bound me safe.

I hobbled home. We laughed. My brother gave me the shirt off his back.

I retrace the silver line fondly.

 

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